The Hangout - Gold Key
Alyssa Adams
Embedded Files
Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned - Gold Key
Alexia Anaya
The Beauty of Decay - Gold Key
Lilyona Kribley
What Seeps In My Sleep - Gold Key
Alexia Anaya
Growing Up - Honorable Mention
Dakota Ellis
Senior Writing Portfolio "What I Found Under My Skin" - Silver Key
Senior Writing Portfolio "What I Found Under My Skin" - Silver Key
Poem "Under examination" - Honorable Mention
Dakota Barkwill
"The Burning He Tampered" (Flash Fiction Excerpt)
"The Burning He Tampered" (Flash Fiction Excerpt)
The night is warm—it's a low hum, a faint light, a quiet night. The kind of night that feels cushioned and safe. The child sleeps curled in their bed, nothing heavy pressing over their head. Nothing unsettling to worry about. A buzzing noise murmurs on the other side of their bedroom door, loud enough to wake them. A sharp light shines from the crack in the bottom, spreading across the floor. The child stirs, rising from the bed to see the light, to hear the buzz. Their eyebrows pinch together, blinking in the dark and squinting at it. They can feel their heartbeat in their ears.
They get out of bed, walking slowly to the door, then slowly—as quietly as possible—opening it. The light floods in, offensive to their eyes, and they can’t see at first where it’s coming from until their eyes adjust. It’s coming from above: the kitchen ceiling. The light is a spectrum of colors, draping over the child, and the buzzing is blaring.
Poem "The Ripe Fruit of Now" - Silver Key
Poem "The Ripe Fruit of Now" - Silver Key
Jillian Denecke
I bite into the present like a ripe peach;
The juice of the past rushing passed my lips and dripping down my chin,
The sweet flesh of the future tasting like a promise on my tongue,
The sun shining onto my face shifting this moment.
My feet grazing the hard cobblestone,
the sand sticking to my calf binding me to this moment.
The half peeled orange sitting on the table in front of me,
half of the slices of possibility peeking out where they can,
The parts ripped from the whole mocking me,
My fingers still sticky with the evidence of the change I’ve been running from.
The leaves of a nearby orange tree branching out
into the vastness of the bright blue bird sky.
Each individual fruit containing an entirely new present.
My eyes burdened with the knowledge of my entire existence, falling
shut heavily with the overly salty breeze.
I reach my hand up to trace the pattern of the crashing waves
as if my fingers have morphed into paintbrushes.
The unpredictability offers me a sense of self;
The contents of all life being made up from parts of this moment.
Poem "Ode to the Heavens" - Honorable Mention
Poem "Ode to the Heavens" - Honorable Mention
Gabrielle Garcia
I remember on a night, silent and peaceful
I was lounging in the backyard wide-eyed
Staring into the ether, it was beautiful
Speckled shining stars against an obsidian sky
I observed the moon cast her gentle light
Among the thousands of other stars
Illuminating the quiet night
Glimmering from afar
I remember how the stars would flicker
Twinkling and dancing amongst each other
I would relax for hours watching constellations glitter
Through fall, winter, spring, and summer
I remember using binoculars I was holding
To observe the moon in all her glory
Oh, how striking!
Her stance stoic and imposing
Heaven’s lunar eye
Standing so silently in the sky
The moon an ancient celestial nightlight
Watching history unfurl as years go by
Her surface rugged and bumpy
Littered with mountains and valleys
Her light soft and cold
Irradiating a cool tone
Watching our galaxy flittering like a spirit
It left me in awe
Oh, how I miss it!
Anything to catch a glimpse of all the stars I once saw
Hearing the crickets chirp
Seeing the stars wink above
Feeling the grass and the dirt
Like the Earth and I were one
To see the grandeur of the twilight
It filled me with a feeling once unknown
But the speckled sky is now out of sight
The heavens are empty except for the moon alone
Short Story ¨Red Vision¨ (Excerpt) - Silver Key
Lucas Winter
I keep my shoulders rounded on the morning bus, even though the seat beneath me is built for a normal animal; an animal that acts normal and is treated as such. That’s the thing about being an orca whale in a world built for everyone else: everything either fits too small or not at all. I’m too big when I’m trying to disappear, too small when people expect me to be a monster. The other passengers pretend not to stare, but I see it in the way their ears angle back, in how their tails stiffen, in the quick glances they trade like I’m not just a kid trying to get to school on time. Outside the window, the city is ordinary enough: hustling commuters, coffee shops, a jaywalking rat yelling into her phone, but inside the bus — the air feels tight.
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